Drawn By Conceit From Reason's Plan How

Genius Is Nothing More Than Inflamed Enthusiasm.

Nature Listening Stood, Whilst Shakespeare Play'd And Wonder'd At The Work Herself Had Made.

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.

Be England What She Will, With All Her Faults She Is My Country Still.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.